


Love Across the Street

by spare



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Food, Friendship, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Shawarma Shop, Sheva'bradh, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Snark, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5016007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spare/pseuds/spare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shawarma shop AU that no one asked for! Inspired by all the other yummy Solavellan modern-day AUs out there.</p><p>Ellana Lavellan is the proud co-proprietor of <i>Daisy's Sheva'bradhan</i>, a humble little sheva'bradh snackstand set to hopefully conquer the tastebuds of Haven's train-commuting public. Solas is the less than gregarious owner of a bookshop across the street. They meet and fall in love... eventually.</p><p>Because romance is like that honey bradhel one has at four o'clock: it should be savored, treasured, looked forward to.</p><p>… And also because the two parties involved could be such stubborn, silly fools.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ladders, Knickers and Marmalade Bradhel

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Trespasser DLC, shawarma, AlDub<3, and a Solavellan AU fic binge, I dropped a murder mystery AU to write this fluffy happy snarky AU piece instead. Because I need it. Enjoy?
> 
> 'Sheva'bradh' is my entirely non-canon take on Dalish shawarma: shavings of meat slow-roasted on a vertical grill (although a less-popular—but no less authentic—variant uses sun-dried or cured meat), rolled up and served with a leaf of spindleweed, pickled vegetables and a special honey-yogurt dressing in extra-thin toasted flatbread. The word 'bradh' means bread, borrowed from [FenxShiral's Project Elvhen](http://archiveofourown.org/series/229061). 'Sheva' is my presumptuous fuzzy Elven for shredded meat. Sheva'bradh thus translates to 'shredded meat bread'. (But really I just used it because it sounds close enough to 'shawarma'. And because it sounds nice. Fictional languages are fun that way.)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** _Dragon Age: Inquisition_ and corresponding characters belong to BioWare. The story below is a free fanwork published solely for entertainment.

_**Late Solace, ME 2015** _

It was the tail end of summer when they first met, with the air warm but blessedly dry and All Soul's Day, the first day of August, just around the corner.

They met perhaps by chance, or by queer contrivance of fate. They met because Ellana needed a stepladder.

She needed one because she was a five-foot-three elven woman trying to install the light fixtures on a ceiling, and that ceiling happened to be elevated exactly ten feet from the floor. Standing on tiptoe atop a wobbly wooden stool can only get her so far, as she found out, even with her arms outstretched and held out and upraised; her latest effort effected little but send her toppling, like some bizarre lightbulb-wielding statue, straight to the cold linoleum floor.

Cold reality set in soon after: the reality of requiring a ladder to properly affix the blasted bulb to the blasted light socket in the middle of the blasted ceiling. That, or wait a couple of more hours for Merrill and Mahanon to come back—but that was, as far as Ellana's stubborn pride was concerned, out of the question.

So, the stepladder.

There was none to be found in the storage closet, however, or anywhere else in the newly rented ground floor unit that was to be the happy little home of  _Daisy's Sheva'bradhan_. Then again, she hadn't really expected that there would be. That nice young man who'd helped them carry their stuff in this morning—he'd given his name, but for the life of her she couldn't quite recall it—had pointed that out, hadn't he?

Something like it, anyway, Ellana mused, her brow furrowing. What  _had_  he said?

“ _You'll need a ladder for the lights.”_  Right, that was it. “ _I've got classes later, so I won't be here to help, but you can borrow one from the bookshop across the street.”_

She stepped outside. How quaint, she thought wryly, that she could remember all that, yet completely forget the lad's name. Memory was a funny thing.

In any case,  _there_  was the bookshop, exactly where the young Samaritan had said it would be, a small but stately affair of brick and glass with BOOKS FOR LESS stenciled in plain white lettering. Beyond the store window several books were arranged for display: hardcovers and paperbacks, thick and thin, bestsellers and obscure tomes with titles she could barely read. Even more books lined the shelves further in.

The sign at the door declared the shop open, but she couldn't see anyone within. Not that it mattered; from without the place projected a distinctly detached aura, not unlike that of an aloof, ancient cat. You either went in, or you didn't. It didn't seem to care either way.

A bell jangled overhead as Ellana entered the shop. She started at the sound, half-expecting some crusty old curmudgeon to come swooping in. But no one appeared, curmudgeon or no. She remained quite alone at the entrance.

“Hello?” she called out tentatively, looking about.

The shop's interior was just as welcoming as the front. There was the obligatory desk and register set up by the door, with nobody to man it. Tall bookshelves covered the perimeter of the room, the walls—what little she saw, at least—heavily wainscotted and papered a somber green. Even suffused in summer afternoon sunlight, the dark gray floor tiles gleamed coldly. Taking a few steps inward she perceived a narrow hallway and an equally narrow flight of stairs. Neither had shelves, for books or otherwise, there that she could see; just more of the same abominable wallpaper and even more wainscoting.

And a painting, a seascape set in a simple wooden frame, mounted on the wall opposite the staircase.

Ellana stood in front of it, utterly transfixed.

A rocky seaside, a roiling sea. A flock of birds flying triumphantly towards the sun. Earth and water. Wind and fire. A veritable riot of color and light. And yet—

“Can I help you?” a voice inquired, low and smooth, behind her.

She jumped and turned around. She blinked.

The elven man who met her gaze was decidedly  _not_  a curmudgeon, nor old, nor crusty. Middle-aged, yes, in his early forties if she were to take a guess, bald and broad-shouldered and tall. He wore a cream-colored long-sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone, its edges neatly tucked beneath a pair of deep brown trousers. His skin was pale, his expression dour, his face bereft of vallaslin. Good-looking, too, if 'scholarly ascetic' was your thing: high cheekbones, full lips, an aquiline nose. A prominent cleft on his chin. Deepset eyes, slate-blue and piercing.

“Yes?” Ellana replied, perhaps a little too loudly. She coughed, and in a steadier tone went on, “That is, I hope you can. I'm Ellana—” She smiled at him and stuck out her hand, “—from across the street. We've only just moved in.”

The man did not smile back. Instead of taking her hand, he merely looked at it. “I see,” he said, once again meeting her eyes. “And with what particular matter are you hoping I can be of help,” —At this, his mouth quirked ever so contemptuously, “Miss Ellana from across the street?”

Her smile considerably thinned at his words.  _Not a curmudgeon, no,_  Ellana appended,  _but definitely a bit of an ass._  A condescending, annoyingly eloquent ass with a voice she shouldn't find so damned appealing.

“A stepladder,  _hahren_ , if you could lend me one,” she retorted, her proffered hand falling to her side, the 'hahren' intended more as a dig at his age than an actual honorific. (Not that  _she_  was that much younger, at thirty-three, but still.) “And 'Ellana' would do just fine, thank you.”

That earned her an arched brow and narrowed blue-grey eyes. “Ma nuvenin,” the man rejoined, “ _da'len_.” He spoke in flawless Elven, each word enunciated with the same pointed courtesy she'd earlier employed on him.

Tit for tat. Splendid.

He got Ellana his stepladder in short order, at any rate; even offered to carry it over to her place. She politely declined, thanked him through gritted teeth, and promised to have the ladder returned to his shop by noon of the following day. They exchanged equally abrupt goodbyes that really meant 'good riddance', and went their separate, not so merry ways.

Or, at least, she did. The ladder folded and secured in her arms, she returned anon to the still-unfurnished  _Daisy's_. If he watched her cross the road, or if he headed off to sort books, or to sit behind the register, or whatever it was booksellers did on slow summer afternoons, Ellana couldn't rightly say. Neither could she care any less.

She'd really rather not deal with the insufferable man, she thought, more than was absolutely necessary.

~o~

“And yet,” Mahanon dryly observed, hours later, “you can't quite seem to stop talking about him.”

“I can, too,” Ellana scoffed. “I am doing so right now, in fact. Now help me move this back, will you?”

“Yes, ma'am,” her cousin replied, obediently walking over.

Together, they lifted the refrigerator, placing it against the wall adjacent to the back door. As Ellana got it plugged to the electrical outlet, Mahanon proceeded to unpack yet another cardboard box, this one labelled 'Grill - A'.

“What's his name, anyway?” he asked after a time. “This 'hahren' who's got your knickers in a twist?”

She gave a snort. “Don't go dragging my knickers into this.” She hesitated to admit that she never did get the man's name, for all that she'd practically made off with his stepladder.

But luckily Merrill came in just then, bearing two grocery bags' worth of provisions. “Who's dragging what now?”

“This brat,” Ellana replied, at the same time Mahanon responded with, “Knickers.”

“Oh.” Merrill blinked a couple of times, those big, pale green, kittenish eyes fairly registering her confusion. “That's... nice, I suppose? Or odd. Definitely odd. And more than a little creepy. I mean, why  _would_  Mahanon want to drag your knickers around, Ellie?”

Now there's an image. “Why, indeed?”

“I wouldn't!” Mahanon protested, holding up his hands. “It's this hahren Ellie met, from that dreary old bookshop across the street.”

“ _He_  wants Ellana's knickers?”

“No!” Ellana laughingly denied. Now  _there's_  an image. “Merrill—”

~o~

And so it was that Merrill was duly apprised, over tea and bradhel with marmalade, as to how Ellana had borrowed a stepladder from the bald elven bookseller across the road.

“At least I got the lights all done by the time you came back,” Ellana finished with a shrug, waving her half-eaten bradhel up at the ceiling. “I never did get his name, but he's—”

“Solas,” Merrill said.

Ellana nodded. “Oh, he certainly is. The proudest city elf that I've met so far. And he's so tall it's absurd—”

“I meant,” Merrill gently cut in, throwing an apologetic look at Ellana, “that that really is his name. 'Solas'.”

Mahanon frowned. “You know him, then?”

“Well, not personally—” Merrill shook her head, “—but Varric does. In fact, I do believe they're friends.” A beat, and then: “Unless he's  _another_  tall, bald, bare-faced elf. Who also happens to run a bookshop in this district. That may very well be the case, you know.”

Both cousins bit thoughtfully into their respective snacks.

Eventually, Mahanon agreed, “That  _is_  entirely possible, yes.”

Ellana took a sip of her tea and added, “Though not very likely.”

Merrill smiled. “Well,” the dark-haired elven woman declared, “whether he is Varric's friend or not, I suppose we could just ask him his name.”

“Yes,” said Ellana, “I suppose we could.”

'We', of course, meaning only Merrill and Mahanon; she did promise to return the stepladder tomorrow, but she never promised to return it herself. With any luck, she would never have to see this Solas—or whatever his name really was—ever again.


	2. Calls, Deliveries, and Sheva'bradh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More snarking ahead. Also, food porn (i.e. you may not want to read this on an empty stomach).

Ellana's luck, as it turned out, was shit.

Mahanon's agent called, bright and early the next morning, to tell him he's landed a final, all-important audition for a major TVC. Would he kindly get his cute little elven butt to Redcliffe within the next two hours, please? Then Merrill's parole officer called, informing her that her presence has been respectfully requested by the Haven PD. Would she be so kind as to visit the station as soon as she was physically able?  _Then_  Aunt Deshanna called, but only to tell them to expect six large glass jars each of homemade blackberry jam and pickled veggies to be delivered to their shop within the day. Miss you all, take good care of yourselves, Mythal'enaste, and would someone please, please,  _please_  be there to check and sign the receipt?

And so it fell to Ellana, by virtue of having neither auditions nor summons from the local police, to faithfully await the purple ThedEx delivery bike at  _Daisy's (Opening Soon!)_. Which was quite all right, in and of itself—

Except that that also meant she'd have to be the one to return the stepladder to Messere Prideful Prick.

Alas.

Come ten-thirty a.m., the ThedEx people arrived, and Ellana signed papers confirming she has indeed received, in good condition, six (6) jars of blackberry preserves and six (6) jars of pickled vegetables. These items thusly labelled, stored, and listed, she texted her aunt— _'got them, tnx nana!'_ —and proceeded to prepare lunch in relative equanimity. 'Lazy' sheva'bradh, the way her nomadic ancestors had made it: with shredded strips of sun-dried meat and mushrooms, topped with spindleweed leaves, some pickled veggies, and a generous spoonful of honey-laced yogurt. Considerably more tart—and pungent—than the grilled variety, but easier to prepare; just roll 'em all up in in sheets of sethbradh—flatbread—and eat, no toasting necessary.

She ended up making three. Two for herself (she was  _starving_ ) and one for Merrill, in the off chance that Clan Sabrae's erstwhile First would be released from the police station early.

Come eleven-thirty-nine a.m., however, Merrill called, and in no uncertain terms informed Ellana that she would be detained well into the afternoon.

“And our neighbor really  _is_  Solas, Ellie,” she added, sounding remarkably pleased to confirm that her initial hazard was, indeed, correct. “Varric says he's not the friendliest sort, but he's 'all right'. Just a little, er, broody.” She chuckled briefly. “Not  _quite_  as bad as Fenris was, though, bless his heart. Tell him Varric sends his regards, will you? To Solas, I mean?”

Ellana's fingers clenched around her cell phone. “I will,” she said, inclining her head, “yes.”

“That stepladder—”

“Oh,  _that_.” She cleared her throat. “Actually, I was just about to head out to return it.”

“Oh, that's right,” Merrill replied, comprehending. “It is almost noon, isn't it?”

It was.

_Fenedhis lasa._

The call ended, and Ellana hastened to procure the stepladder from where she'd propped it on the far wall. A thought occurred to her on her way out; she grabbed some wax paper, napkins, and a take-out bag, and doubled back to where she had lunch laid out on the counter.

Never let it be said that  _she_  was an inconsiderate neighbor.

It was eleven-fifty-five when Ellana finally went outside, lugging both the stepladder and her gift. She squared her shoulders, set her chin, and strode straight off to the bookshop on the other side of the street.

~o~

The bell chimed dutifully as the door swung open, admitting the shop's latest unwelcome arrival inside.

Solas looked up from his copy of Irving's  _On Silver Cords_ , quick to hide his annoyance beneath the politely attentive shopkeeper's mask he'd perfected over the years. He did it by rote, as automatic as his murmured, “Greetings,” followed by the obligatory pause to see if the other party would acknowledge or ignore him; until such a time, of course, as his customer felt that his assistance was required. The usual routine.

His customers usually didn't come in carrying ladders, though.

Or stuffed paper bags with stylized daisies printed on the front.

His customers usually weren't elven, either, let alone Dalish, but this one most certainly was; from the haughty, defiant set of her jaw to the burnt sienna vines of Elgar'nan branded all along the contours of her face.

Solas recognized her as the elven woman from the day before; the one who had been staring at his painting. Her mop of dark auburn hair was as untidy as ever, her almond-shaped eyes as vividly green, her olive complexion just as nicely set off by the pale yellow summer frock and faded denim jacket she'd chosen to wear that day.

“Miss Ellana,” he said, abruptly closing his book and giving the briefest, most perfunctory incline of his head. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Ellana set the stepladder down and shrugged. “I did say I was going to return this,” she replied, matter of fact, for all that her voice retained that rolling, playful lilt of one native to the eastern Free Marches. “Also, here.” She thrust the paper bag in front of his face. The smell of bread, herbs, and salt-cured meat assailed his nostrils. “A thank you gift, of sorts.”

“I—” He bit his tongue, “—Ma serannas,” he uttered instead, accepting the proffered parcel. She  _did_  mean well. “What is it, if I may ask?”

“Sheva'bradh.” She said it as if that should've been obvious. “I made too much for lunch, so I figured—”

“That I'd gratefully accept your leftovers?”

“That's not—” Taking a deep breath, the woman closed her eyes, then opened them again to glare at him properly. “Look, is it because I'm Dalish? Or are you really that impossible with everyone else?”

Calmly, Solas stood up. “If by 'impossible' you mean saying what I believe to be true, even if it gives offense,” he rejoined, his tone curt, “then yes, Miss Ellana, I am. I do not treat you any differently because of the markings on your face.”

“That makes me feel  _so_  much better.”

“It should.”

A beat.

“Incidentally,” Ellana clarified with a huff, “I was being sarcastic when I said that.”

“Incidentally,” Solas evenly replied, “I know you were.” He folded his hands behind his back. “Now, if there's nothing else—?”

She appeared to hesitate for a moment, her lips pursed in thought, her head dipping slightly forward. As he watched, a wayward lock of auburn hair fell across her brow, obscuring part of her visage.

Solas' fingers twitched.

“Nothing,” Ellana spoke at last, her green eyes peering up at him stonily. “Enjoy your lunch, Solas.”

Then she turned away, marched toward the door, and left him there, alone—

As he'd wanted; as he very much preferred to be.

(And if a small, traitorous part of him felt that he  _had_  been unaccountably rude, or that he could have, perhaps, handled that encounter better—then, tough.)

He looked down at the paper bag on his desk. Settling back on his seat, Solas carefully extracted its contents: two paper napkins and a paper-wrapped roll of flatbread, from the open edges of which he could perceive crisp spindleweed leaves and shredded meat. His nose picked up an appetizing array of aromas: Sethbradh, freshly baked, its crust flaky and light. Beef steeped in honey, salt, and spice. Forest mushrooms. Something creamy—yogurt. Honey and lime. Cucumber, carrots, peppers, and green papaya drenched in cilantro and vinegar.

His stomach growled as if on cue, reminding him that breakfast—a rushed affair of burnt toast and instant 3-in-1 coffee—had been hours—ages, it seemed like—ago.

Ah, well, Solas thought. No sense in letting food go to waste.

He was wolfing down the last savory morsel of sheva'bradh when he finally realized that she'd said his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the last sentence of this chapter. I just couldn't resist.
> 
> **Fuzzy Elven:**  
>  Mythal'enaste – Mythal's favor (on us all)  
> Sethbradh – literally 'thin bread'; flatbread  
> Fenedhis lasa – an extended version of a common Elven curse  
> Ma serannas – My thanks./Thank you.


	3. Porn, Banter, and Sheva'bradh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More food porn. Also, actual professional food styling and photography are _loads_ more artificial and painstaking than how they were depicted in this chapter. I just needed an excuse for Dorian/Mahanon banter and innuendo. For, uh, science. ^-^v Yes.

To say that Ellana had left the premises of Books for Less with a less than favorable view of its occupant would be a gross understatement. _Never again,_ she had vowed to herself. _I'd sooner fall through a hole in the sky than speak with_ that _jerkass._

'Leftovers', indeed. And saying— _claiming_ —in that coolly polite, infuriatingly reasonable tone of his that it wasn't because she was Dalish, oh no; he really was that much of an asshole to everybody.

The worst of it was, she believed him. Closely followed by the incredible, inconceivable notion that _Varric_ was supposedly friends with the creep.

(Say it isn't so, Mr. Tethras. Say it isn't so.)

As it were, the dwarf could send his regards to Messere Solas himself. If Ellana were to never set foot inside that bookshop again, it'll be too soon. She had other, far better things to do with her time.

Like clean up the storefront and buy their own stepladder, which she did the very next day. And queue up at Haven's city hall for the necessary permits and clearances, as she did not two days later.

And help shoot porn—

Which was what she has been doing for the better half of today.

Apparently.

Well, not _'porn'_ porn, just— Kind of. Sort of.

… Maybe?

“Now spread them out like that, just enough to tease—yes, like _that_ ; Make them want it.”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Mahanon did as instructed.

“Excellent!” his boyfriend, Dorian Pavus—tall, dark, and exceedingly handsome—crowed approvingly from behind the lens.

The camera flashed, the photo duly taken: three overstuffed rolls of toasted sheva'bradh, the shredded strips of roasted meat, julienned vegetables, and rich honey-yogurt dressing almost, but not quite, bursting out of their thin, flaky shells; all artfully arranged, of course, on a sheet of _Daisy's_ watermarked wax paper, under which was a simple wooden platter with their shop's namesake flowers carved all along the edges. Bathed in soft yellow light (an effect achieved with a few well-placed mirrors and an old table lamp used specifically for that purpose), the spread looked positively scrumptious.

Mahanon, on the other hand, simply looked ill. And tired. And one good ass shove away from upset. Cheek-pinchingly adorable, too, for all that; a point Ellana opted to keep to herself, lest she also suffer her violet-eyed cousin's glare of death.

“Exactly how many pictures do you need, anyway?” said cousin now inquired from his post by the table.

“Two more and we're done,” Dorian informed him, taking a moment to fiddle with the settings of his digital camera. “And may I remind you that we would've been finished ages ago if _someone_ didn't spill the yogurt.”

“Yes, well,” Mahanon coughed and folded his arms, blushing to the roots of his auburn hair, “that's only because Ellie put far too much in it.”

“I did not,” Ellana scoffed, speaking up for the first time since prepping this latest batch of sheva'bradh for the photo shoot. Over the last hour she'd been content to sit back and watch as the two worked their magic.

“You put in more toppings than what you'd actually add if we were selling it,” her cousin pointed out, making good use of the six inches of height he lorded over her by standing ramrod straight and looking censorious.

“Only a little,” she so-not-defensively answered back. “And they're all still the same ingredients that we'll use for our sheva'bradh, so I don't see why that should be a problem.”

“Neither do I, for that matter,” Dorian smoothly interposed, shooting a pointed look at Mahanon. “Advertising is one part truth and three parts trickery, as you well know. Or did you actually _decline_ to play a teenager in that new soda commercial even though you're twenty-six?”

“I can't help it if I look a decade younger,” Mahanon stated.

“And I can't help it if I look absolutely gorgeous,” Dorian replied. “As well as bound to be ridiculously good at most anything I set my mind to, this included.” He hefted his camera and gave him a wink. “Speaking of which...”

“Two more, fine.” Mahanon's tone also said, _It had better be._

Dorian grinned. “Splendid.” He gestured towards the platter of sheva'bradh. “Now, for this shot, let's have you show them all the juicy bits, get their mouths watering—”

Mahanon rolled his eyes. “I wish you'd stop talking as if we're shooting porn.”

“But we _are_ , amatus, are we not?” the man insisted, eyes twinkling. “We are shooting _food porn_.”

As Mahanon groaned, Ellana perceived a motorcycle pull up in front of their shop, parking along the curb.

“That might be Merrill,” she announced, rising to her feet. “I'll meet her outside. Try _not_ to shoot any other type of porn while I'm away, will you?”

And to Dorian's laughter and her cousin's outraged cry of “Like we would!” Ellana made her exit.

~o~

It _was_ Merrill who'd arrived, but she didn't come alone. That boy who'd been so accommodating when they'd first moved in— _Fenedhis, why_ can't _I recall his name?_ —had been the one driving the motorbike. While the lanky human dismounted and removed his helmet, revealing pale blond hair even messier than her own, Ellana just stood there, smiled her brightest, and silently racked her brains for the lad's name.

Thankfully, Merrill helped her out. “Ma serannas, Cole,” the elven woman said, climbing out of the sidecar with an armful of packages. “It's awfully good of you to offer me a ride, what with the trains so crowded it's impossible to—Ellie!”

“Hey,” Ellana called back. She took a few packages off Merrill's hands, then turned to face the blond-haired youth. “It seems like we owe you another favor.”

“I'm always happy to help,” the young man—Cole—replied. He sounded like he meant it, too. “And I was headed here anyway, so it really wasn't any trouble.” He bent over the sidecar, hoisting what was apparently a hefty bundle of newspapers, magazines, and other periodicals.

“He picked them up from the post office,” Merrill filled in.

“Yes.” Cole nodded. “I get paid to deliver these.”

“Well, Cole, feel free to drop by our place once you're done,” Ellana told him. “The least we could do is fix you up a meal.”

“I will try,” the boy said, smiling shyly. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Merrill retorted, beaming. “See you around.”

“See you.”

Then off he went, bobbing one last polite nod at them both.

“Oh, I hope he does come back,” said Merrill. “He seems to be quite a nice lad, doesn't he?”

“He does indeed,” Ellana agreed. Much nicer, certainly, than a certain bald elf she has had the misfortune to meet. “Mahanon's an utter brat in comparison.”

“How are he and—ah, what was his boyfriend's name again? Devon, Dylan—?”

“Dorian. Bickering like an old married couple, as usual. They're almost done with the photos.”

“Then we should get inside,” Merrill said, walking ahead, packages in tow. “Oh, this is so exciting! I can't believe we're getting an award-winning photographer to do our menu shots.”

Following along, Ellana sighed wistfully. “I can't believe Mahanon's got a boyfriend who is smart, witty, handsome, _and_ absurdly talented to boot. Life is so unfair.”

“So it is,” Merrill concurred. “I suppose I should feel happy for them both, and I am... except they're also making me painfully aware that I'm a shriveled-up old spinster.”

“You're not 'shriveled-up', Merrill. Or old.”

“ _Yet_ ,” she appended gloomily. “Why, I'm turning thirty-four this year.”

“And barely a month ago I turned thirty-three.” Ellana shrugged. “Big deal. We're still pretty enough to turn a few heads, and soon we'll be rich—”

“—If our business takes off.”

“ _Once_ our business takes off.”

“You always sound so sure, Ellie,” Merrill remarked amiably. “It's really rather admirable. And terrifying. But mostly admirable.”

“'Var landivalis las enasalin',” quoted Ellana. _Because if it doesn't,_ she wryly added to herself, _we're screwed. Royally._

~o~

**[ You're screwing with me. ]**

Frowning slightly, Solas brought up the on-screen keyboard of his phone. **[ I assure you, ]** he typed, **[ I am not. ]** He hit _Send_ and reopened his book.

He'd managed—just barely—to get through two more pages of _The Unholy Grace_ when his phone buzzed again.

**[ She's not going to like this, Chuckles; ]** Varric had replied. **[ Not one bit. ]**

Solas snorted. _And?_ Quickly he texted back, **[ I fail to see how that should be any of my concern. ]**

One rather dubious 'first-hand' account and three glaring translation errors later, he received Varric's response.

**[ True. It's only _my_ ass on the line, after all. ]**

To which he rejoined: **[ You are hardly expendable, Master Tethras. ]**

Then a customer had entered the shop, a human man with a thick Orlesian accent who'd inquired after a book requested by one Frederic of Serault, PhD. By the time Solas checked his phone, two new messages had come in, one after the other.

**[ Gee, thanks. ]**

**[ Hopefully, she'll remember that before dealing any permanent damage. ]**

**[ You'll talk your way out of it, ]** Solas keyed in. **[ You always do. ]** He'd scarcely sent it out when the _1 New Message_ graphic appeared on the screen.

**[ By the way, hope you're playing nice. ]**

With whom?

For what?

Furrowing his brow, Solas texted, **[ I don't quite follow. ]**

Elucidation took awhile. He'd reached the end of the chapter and pasted a few notations on the side when Varric's reply came in.

**[ Your new neighbors. Daisy and co. You've met one of them— Ellie, or so I've been told. ]**

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Var landivalis las enasalin – Our belief shall grant (us) victory.


	4. Texts, Letters, and Even More Sheva'bradh

**[ You mean Ellana. ]**

Solas hesitated, his finger hovering over  _Send_ , then moved to completely delete what he'd composed instead.

He tried:  **[ I've met a Miss Ellana, yes. We did not get along all that well. ]**

_And that's putting it mildly,_  Solas mused, frowning at the screen. After a moment he erased the last sentence and typed,  **[ Barely a week ago she borrowed my stepladder and gave me sheva'bradh. ]**

Mouth pursed, he mulled over what he'd written for the next few seconds, feeling intensely dissatisfied but not quite able to put his finger on the cause of it. He cancelled the text. He sighed.

In the end, what he ultimately sent out to Varric was,  **[ I may have, yes. ]**

Seconds later he began to type,  **[ More friends of yours? ]**  then stopped, for  _of course_  they were, or trusted acquaintances at the very least; for Varric to ask after them, for them to even be allowed to set up shop in a building owned by the dwarf (or a convenient 'cousin'), they would have to be. In any event, that cleared up the minor mystery of Miss Ellana—she of the vibrant green eyes and surprisingly savory sheva'bradh—knowing his name.

He wondered what else Varric has told her—told  _them_ —about him. Not that he cared what they thought of him, precisely, because he didn't; he was just—

“Curious,” the voice of a young man finished for him. “Contradictions all around. You want to know, but then you don't. You're careful not to care, except you do.”

Did he?

Pocketing his phone, Solas stood up to greet his latest visitor. “It's good to see you, too, Cole.”

“Is it?” the blond-haired youth asked, those faded blue eyes looking past him, through him, unblinkingly. Suddenly Cole frowned. “I may have said too much, again. I'm sorry.”

Solas held up his hand. “Don't be.” He nodded towards the stack of periodicals the boy had set down on the desk. “These are all from that Kirkwall publishing house, I take it?”

“Yes,” Cole replied. “There are some letters for you, too.”

There were, in fact, three: one from a senior editor of the aforementioned publishing company, another from Archivist Banon of the University of Orlais. The third was in a plain white envelope and had no return address.

Another one of  _those_ , then.

“I see,” Solas said. Calmly he put the letters away for his perusal later. “As always, thank you for bringing these to me.”

“It's my job,” Cole returned with a smile, tapping his Haven PO ID. “And besides, I do like helping you.”

And with one last nod, the boy bid him farewell, both the bell and the door barely making a sound as he stepped out into the busy street. Just as quietly as when he'd first come in, really. No surprise there; in all the three years Solas has known the lad, he has yet to hear Cole make the store bell ring beyond a begrudging clink. He suspected he never will, to be honest.

His phone vibrated in his trouser pocket.

**[ 'I may have,' he says; ]**  Varric had texted back.  **[ Now, _why_  do I get the feeling that you've been your usual charming self, Chuckles? ]**

_Why, indeed?_  No emoticons accompanied those words, yet Solas could all but see the dwarf's sardonic, needling grin.

**[ I would hardly know, Master Tethras. ]**   _Or care,_  he silently insisted.  **[ Perhaps you should ask Miss Ellana herself just how charming I was. I expect she will have plenty to say on the matter. ]**

Far more than what he himself would, at any rate. The message duly sent, Solas sat back down, and set about attending to the bundle of periodicals Cole had brought in.

He had picked up a glossy magazine—the anniversary issue of  _Marcher_ , with young Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven on the cover—when a flicker of movement caught his eye: another envelope, yellow and thick, falling off the far edge of his desk and onto the floor. With a puzzled frown, Solas retrieved it, turning it over in his hands.

The envelope's intended recipient was a Miss Merrill Sabrae, whose mailing address was apparently quite near his own place of business.

What arrested his gaze, however, was the sender's name. He stared at it, blinking, re-reading it two more times; but no, he was not mistaken.

His cell phone buzzed again.

_Speaking of,_  Solas thought, and opened Varric's latest message.

~o~

“Oh, Dorian, these are all  _amazing_ ,” Merrill gushed. “How do you do it?”

“How can I not?” the bemustached man replied, openly preening like a proverbial peacock at the elven woman's praise. “My brilliance shows no matter what I do. Frankly, I'd have to exert more effort to make something terrible. It's like a curse.”

Seated in front of them and behind his precious laptop, from where they were viewing his boyfriend's unedited sheva'bradh photos, Mahanon gave a snort. “In case you're wondering,” he said, presumably to Merrill and Ellana, “he normally  _is_  this insufferable.”

“Not so different from yourself, then,” Ellana quipped, mouth quirking. She stood by the countertop, away from the three. She had donned an apron and was busy transferring some of the sheva'bradh she'd made for the shoot onto individual paper plates.

As her cousin scowled, Dorian grinned. “I do believe I like your relations, amatus.”

“I can't imagine why,” deadpanned Mahanon, tapping a few keys, “considering how you  _all_  love to needle me.”

“It's how we show we care,” Ellana said sweetly.

“Is it?” Merrill asked. “And here I thought it's because he looks so  _adorable_  when he's angry.”

“That, too,” appended Dorian amiably.

“Oh, Dread Wolf take you all,” Mahanon sulked, only to flush when his boyfriend draped his tanned arms across his shoulders.

“I misspoke; forgive me,” Dorian said, nuzzling the top of Mahanon's head from behind to punctuate his apology. “You look adorable whether or not you're angry.”

Mahanon blushed even harder. Turning around to glare at Dorian, he said, “That's not—” then stopped, squinting at something past the shaded storefront of their shop. “Company, guys,” he announced. “It could be that college kid you invited to come around.”

“His name is Cole,” Ellana informed him.

Hastily she wiped her hands on her apron and hurried out the side entrance to greet the approaching figure. “You're just in time,” she called out, holding the door open and smiling warmly, blindly. “Come on in—”

_'—And I do hope you're hungry,'_  was what Ellana would have said next, but the words, along with her smile, froze on her lips.

Solas stood on the curb not ten feet away from her, as tall, bald, and coolly superior as ever. “Miss Ellana,” he uttered, face unreadable, doing that curt little nod that apparently passed as his 'friendly' greeting. “I'm afraid I'm—”

“Not the person we were expecting, evidently,” Ellana filled in for him. She noted that his shoulders looked especially broad today, what with the ash-colored vest he wore over powder blue long-sleeves, and that his slacks—dark grey—while not exactly snug, suggested more than a hint of long, lithe legs and leanly muscled thighs. His choice of footwear was as elegant as it was offbeat: walnut brown wingtips.

And no, she was totally not staring.

Of course not.

Objectively assessing the enemy's external features, yes—and maybe wetting her lips, once—but  _not_  staring. Ellana straightened her posture, lifted her chin, and glared at him to try and think otherwise. “Well?” she inquired, eyebrow arched, “Whatever brings you here, Solas?”

“You know Varric.”

It wasn't a question, but Ellana nodded just the same. “As do you, evidently.”

Remarkable how his jawline could tighten just so. He took a few steps forward, facing her head on, stopping close enough for her to discover the light dusting of freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose. “This is—” Solas held up a yellow envelope, reading out the address that was undoubtedly the one for their shop, “—Correct?” he finished, his gaze once again lifting to meet hers.

Damn those distracting blue-grey eyes. “It is,” Ellana nodded again, glaring even harder, “yes.”

“Ah.” Solas blinked, but didn't seem perturbed in the slightest. “Then I believe I've got a letter here—” He flipped the envelope so she could plainly see what was printed at the back, “—addressed to Miss Sabrae.”

Ellana blinked as well. “Merrill?”

“Yes, Ellie?” Miss Sabrae herself called back, coming up right behind her. “Is Cole— Oh!”

This, when the aforementioned elven woman saw Solas at last.

_Speaking of,_  Ellana thought, and proceeded to make the necessary introductions.

~o~

From beyond the dividing wall two muffled voices could be heard:

“He doesn't look like a hahren any more than you do.”

“I never said he did.”

“But you did say it, Ellie.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not—” An exasperated sigh. “Look, can't we  _please_  just stop talking about this? I'm pretty sure he can hear you.”

“Hear us, you mean.”

“Yes. Now hand me the damned tea, Mahanon.”

“Ma nuvenin—” A beat, “—hahren.”

“Oh, I am  _so_  showing Dorian your embarrassing baby pictures.”

And with that as a parting shot (closely followed by her younger cousin's “You wouldn't dare!”), Ellana re-emerged from the kitchen, carrying an ice-laden pitcher of what was, presumably, tea.

Of the lemon-flavored and honey-sweetened variety, or so Solas hoped, observing the petite elven woman make her way over to their folding table with a casual—but no less captivating—grace. Just as casual, but no less flattering, as her clothes for that day: a simple mauve t-shirt, denim cut-offs, and moccasins, along with a frilly pink apron he suspected she'd forgotten she was wearing.

Not that he  _was_  captivated, nor enthralled in the least, because he wasn't; he was merely acknowledging an incontrovertible—and therefore irksome—truth: that he did find Miss Ellana Lavellan both beautiful and graceful, for all that she seemed Void-bent on glaring him to death on that particular afternoon.

When not altogether ignoring his existence, that is.

The latter of which she was decidedly engaged in at present, beaming at Miss Sabrae and the man called Dorian while pointedly not looking his way. “Here we go, then,” said Ellana, pleasant as you please, pouring iced tea into the ceramic mugs arrayed on top of the table. “Drink up.”

“Ma serannas,” Dorian affably replied, and raised his mug in a toast. “And here's to hoping I pronounced that correctly.”

“You did,” Miss Sabrae—Merrill—assured him. “Why, we should start calling you lethallin already.”

“I'm flattered, honored, and just the slightest bit intrigued,” declared the Tevinter. “What does 'lethallin' mean, exactly?”

This time it was Mahanon, Ellana's cousin, who replied. “Literally? 'Of shared blood',” the elf stated, walking up to them and dragging a chair to sit beside Dorian. “A member of the clan, so to speak.”

“Nowadays, however, it's just a fancy term we use for 'friend',” Ellana added with a shrug. She sat down at the only spot left available, next to Merrill and across from where Solas was seated himself. “Or anyone we wouldn't mind sharing a meal with, basically.”

She was addressing Dorian, of course; nonetheless Solas had the distinct impression that that last sentence had been aimed at him all the same.

Then Ellana turned to face him, finally, and Solas knew it was. Her smile tightened, and her bright green eyes warily regarded his own.  _I'm being civil because you were kind enough to return Merrill's misdelivered mail,_  that look proclaimed.  _But I do_ not _consider you lethallin, and I_ do _mind having to share a meal with you._  She gestured at the sheva'bradh on their plates and said, “'Though I'm afraid they still  _are_  leftovers, Solas. I hope that's fine with you?”

Her eyes, he decided, were undoubtedly her best feature. Solas shrugged. “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't, Miss Ellana.”

“True,” she conceded, shrugging back. “And if that envelope Varric sent hadn't somehow ended up with you, you wouldn't be here at all.”

“Then I suppose we have the postal service to blame for my presence,” he dryly replied. “Barring common decency, of course.”

“Common decency,” echoed Ellana. “Of course.”

A tense moment of silence passed between them.

“Well!” Merrill suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hands together, “I'm sure Varric will be pleased to know we've finally met. I know I am. Ellie's told us such things about you!”

“Did she now,” Solas said.

“Oh, yes, she did,” Mahanon replied. “Why, for a time, she wouldn't even shut up about— _Ow!_  Ellie!” The violet-eyed elf scowled accusingly at his cousin.

“Ara seranna-ma,” Ellana uttered, unrepentant. “My foot slipped.”

While Mahanon scoffed, Dorian gave Solas a conspirational wink. “Well, I don't know about you, but I am famished,” the man said, picking up the sheva'bradh on his plate. “I've been taking photos of these lovelies all day.”

“They do look appetizing,” Solas had to admit, looking down at the meat-filled roll of flatbread on his own plate. It smelled—and was, indeed—a bit different from the one he'd had before; the shredded strips of beef not dried but roasted, peppery and rich amidst the vegetables and honey-yogurt dressing.

“They are,” Merrill told him. “Ellie made them herself, you know.”

“With love,” Mahanon helpfully added, pushing back his chair to avoid any further kicks to the shin his cousin may inflict on his person.

As it turned out, the younger elf needn't have bothered. Ellana simply smiled, turned to Dorian, and said, “Mahanon still watches Ser Nuggins reruns on TV.”

“Really, amatus?”

“No!”

“Oh, he does,” Merrill put in. “I think he likes singing along to the music.”

“It's a critically-acclaimed children's classic,” Mahanon said, folding his arms defensively. “At least  _I_  don't own a battered copy of Swords and Shields, or several back issues of the Randy Dowager Quarterly.”

Ellana almost choked on her tea, the warm tan of her skin apparently not deep enough to conceal the blush that rose to her cheeks. “W-well, I—”

“Yes, you do collect them, don't you, Ellie?” Merrill chimed merrily. “Perhaps you should ask Solas if he's got any of those in stock.”

“If he wouldn't mind,” added Mahanon, gazing at Solas with glee. “You wouldn't, would you, ser?”

“I would not be opposed to it,” he answered. A customer was a customer.

The sheva'bradh, so Solas found, was delicious. The meat was juicy and bursting with flavor, the moderate spiciness blending well with the sweetly sour taste of the pickled vegetables and the creaminess of the yogurt. (The sethbradh, however, was a bit overtoasted for his taste, and the spindleweed not as crisp; minor nitpicks that didn't deter Solas from accepting another serving.)

And if part of his enjoyment may have involved having Ellana glare at him from across the table, well, what of it?

It was well worth tolerating the tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Apologies for the delay! RL stuff happened, and then my muse made me take a break from the food porn to write [actual porn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5143025), and then _more_ RL stuff happened... and so here we are.  
>  \- 'Ser Nuggins' as used in the story is a popular children's cartoon starring the heroic nug from DA:I's Ballad of Nuggins. (Except he won't end up as the viscount's dinner, of course. XD)
> 
> **Canon Elven:**  
>  lethallin – clansman/kinsman  
> Ara seranna-ma – Excuse me.

**Author's Note:**

> More to follow later. Thanks for reading! (Is it obvious that I'm making this up as I go along?)
> 
>  **Fuzzy Elven:**  
>  sheva'bradhan – literally 'shredded meat bread place'; a sheva'bradh shop (non-canon)  
> vallaslin – 'blood writing'; facial tattoos typically sported by Dalish elves who come of age  
> hahren – elder  
> Ma nuvenin – As you wish.  
> da'len – child  
> bradhel – Dalish sweet bun with a jam or custard filling; may be baked or fried (non-canon)  
> Solas – pride; to stand tall


End file.
